


Part of the Act

by radondoran



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Disguise, Gen, Sickfic, Vaguely Defined Cliché Background Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 05:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radondoran/pseuds/radondoran
Summary: In which Artemus Gordon is in disguise, and has the flu, and can work with this.





	Part of the Act

Artemus wiped his nose again, and then silently cursed himself for it. Oh, the moustache was secure. The adhesive was his own invention and he trusted it with his life; no amount of rubbing or—ugh— _sniveling_ would detach it, not without the special solvent. But it must be looking unkempt by now—hardly in character for the effete Vicomte Honoré de Rochambeau. He exhaled deliberately and held his breath, fighting back the urge to sneeze.

When James West had accused him the day before of "sounding like you're coming down with something," Artemus had responded with barefaced denial. Had more than half-believed himself, too. But it was no coincidence he'd picked the Vicomte for this job. Honoré's accent was so thick it'd probably go unnoticed just in case his voice did start to go a bit nasal. His foppish demeanor would account for his having the lacy handkerchief out so often—would account, too, for a certain fatigued languidness of manner, and for the way he'd been dabbing at his brow, seemingly overawed by the vast array of sinister apparata in the private collection of one Dr. Q. Greenleaf Holmwood.

Now he shivered, and Mrs. Lucretia Holmwood glanced at him inquiringly. He gave her a sheepish smile. "Ah, to see an authentic _guillotine_ of _la Terreur_ in such a state of preservation, it gives one quite the _frisson_ of excitement, _non?_ "

She looked pleased. "Oh, yes, it does! It's so lovely to meet a true connoisseur."

"I thought you'd appreciate it," said Holmwood. "I think you'll find this next piece most interesting, as well." And he went on expounding, leading the way to the next room.

That's right, Artemus told himself. Use it. That was one of the keys to dissembling: a falsehood was easier to keep up the more half-truth you could put into it. An actor had to believe what he was saying, had to work with himself rather than against.

A _frisson_. It made sense. Like that time he'd been so apprehensive that Count Draja's old flame would give him away—but wasn't it only natural that the real count should be nervous about seeing her? Or like how reading Dickens aloud—well, just as an example—if by chance he were to get a little choked up over the narration, he'd push onward and save that emotion for the dialogue. Use it.

Holmwood had just finished his initial explanation of a particularly ingenious seventeenth-century revolving wheel when there was a faint sound, a sort of thump, from the laboratory below. That'd be Jim subduing the guard.

Mrs. Holmwood looked up, as if she were about to say, "Did you hear something?" 

Artemus sneezed.

Her attention, which had not had time to firmly attach itself elsewhere, was successfully diverted. "God bless you!"

Funny thing for a dame like her to say, thought Artemus; and then a more forceful and unexpected sneeze succeeded the first.

"Goodness! My dear Vicomte, are you all right?"

" _Pardonnez-moi_ "—Artemus was obliged to avail himself of the handkerchief a moment before replying—" _oui, merci, madame_.... A slight touch of _la grippe_ , I think; do not concern yourself."

The secret was out. Good; it was part of Honoré's persona now. He could use it.

"If you are ill, sir," said Holmwood, "please allow my carriage to take you back to your hotel. We can show you the rest of the collection some other time."

" _Non, non, non!_ " Artemus had to keep them up here, had to keep them both occupied long enough for Jim to locate the doomsday machine and activate the self-destruct mechanism. "I'm all right—" In his haste he pronounced the word with the American R sound. "Ah—what I mean to say is, this is all _très, très intéressant_ , I cannot wait to see everything. I am really quite all right, I assure you; pray, would you explain to me the function of this part here?"

"Oh, of course!"

"That's actually one of the more innovative...."

It was a good thing collectors could be so single-minded. In a moment they'd completely forgotten the unwarranted vehemence of the refusal, and neither of them even seemed to notice the moment the accent had slipped. 

Most people wouldn't notice that; most people had a tin ear for phonology, and besides most people only heard what they expected to hear. An accent was sort of like a hat, or a false moustache: as long as you wore it naturally and didn't act self-conscious about it you could get away with a lot.

But Artemus had noticed, and the discordant sound made his head hurt—or, no, more likely his head hurt anyway, and that was why he'd slipped up.

It would be safer to talk less. Fortunately these two made it easy. Periodic interjections of "oh, really?" and " _incroyable!_ " and "you have such a wealth of knowledge!" were enough to keep them quite engaged showing off their little museum of the macabre.

The tour seemed to be approaching its end when they paused before an arched, open doorway. "As you can see we've amassed quite the collection of history," Holmwood said. "Now we're about to show you something that will make history."

"Make history? You cannot mean—"—Artemus lowered his voice, partly out of discretion and partly out of hoarseness—"the item in which the party I represent has such an interest?"

"The very same."

"But—right in there? Up here?"

"What better place to keep it?" purred Mrs. Holmwood. "Why, a secret laboratory would be just where anyone would expect to find a secret device, don't you agree?"

"But here among our exhibits, in our very own second-floor hall..." Holmwood went on.

"The purloined letter," Artemus murmured, half-forgetting for the moment that the Chevalier Dupin belonged in fact to American literature. He was too busy thinking: what if Jim hasn't found it yet? And then, more worrying: what if he has?

And oh no, sure enough, there Jim was, just now descending from the ventilation duct. Their eyes met in alarm, and the Holmwoods' eyes followed Artemus's look. In another instant they would turn around and the jig would be up.

Desperate times, Artemus thought, and staggered.

He swayed, stumbled, contrived to knock over an end table and shatter the vase of flowers thereon, and saved himself from falling only by clutching at Holmwood's lapels.

"Sir, are you all right?" Holmwood's arms were around him already, providing instinctive support.

Mrs. Holmwood's voice, too, was close by: "Why, what's the matter?"

"Ah, a thousand... pardons, madame," Artemus breathed. "I became... quite dizzy...." An actor ought to believe what he was saying; well, right now Artemus had no trouble believing that line.

"Oh, you poor dear," she fussed. Odd, this display of solicitude from people who openly delighted in the depths of cruelty. Some psychological factor, no doubt—a different reaction to one man, versus human lives considered in the aggregate. "We must have a room prepared at once. I'll ring for Abigail."

"Quite right. In the meantime, sir, you must sit down—come, there is a chair right this way..." And he started to turn towards the inner hall.

" _Non_ , it is nothing!" Artemus insisted, struggling in the villain's grasp. Since he'd worked out the code ahead of time it shouldn't take Jim long to execute it—if he could prolong this distraction another minute or two, that should do it. With an effort he momentarily freed himself only to collapse again, clinging even more heavily to his host. The maneuver was easier than standing up would have been.

"Sir, I must insist—"

And "My dear Honoré—" the lady tried. (Well, well! _Un peu intime!_ )

He raised his face towards her with a half-delirious smile. " _Oui, ma chère Lucrèce?_ " Maybe that'd distract the husband.

The chère Lucrèce blushed slightly, and hastily returned her attention to the bell-pull. "What is taking that woman..."

And then at last the familiar sound of alarm bells, and Jim West's quick footsteps as he dashed into the room, gun in hand.

Shoving his burden aside, Holmwood went for his own gun—and came up empty-handed. The Vicomte's limpet grasp had accomplished more than wrinkling his jacket.

"It's too late," Jim was saying. "You both know as well as I do that once the self-destruct mechanism is activated, there's no way the chain reaction can be stopped. Now come on!"

And Artemus, wielding the criminal's gun in a hand that scarcely trembled, steadied himself against the wall an instant and took up his position at his partner's side.

 

Things proceeded more or less as usual after that: the usual dramatic escape, the usual tremendous explosion. As the government coach transporting the prisoners receded into the distance Jim remarked, "Quick thinking on that diversion, by the way."

"Huh? Oh." Artemus returned Honoré's much-abused handkerchief to his pocket again. "Thanks."

In his own accent, the altered quality of his voice was immediately obvious. Jim shot him a quick, assessing look, then reached out and touched a hand to his forehead. "My god, Artie, you're burning up. You mean that wasn't part of the act?"

"You kidding? 'Course it was," said Artemus, and fainted dead away.


End file.
